


'Tis the Season

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Challenge, Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, Santa Claus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Counting down to Christmas the Fluffy way.  I'll be receiving a prompt a day from KrisKenshin and turn it into something fluffy for the season.  Tags and rating could change depending on what the Muse does.  I have no clue what the prompts are until the she gives them to me.  Non-sequential so please don't expect a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Personal Heater

The early morning sunbeam streaked through the one crack in the curtains directly onto John’s eyes. He groaned and pulled the covers over his eyes.  He sighed as he settled back down into the warm darkness of the bed to try and go back to sleep.  He was almost asleep when he heard the door creak open.

“Sherlock,” he mumbled, “You broke the thermostat and it’s the first of December, so if you let any of the warm air out from under these blankets you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Sherlock chuckled as he closed the curtains completely enveloping the room in darkness. John might threaten to make him sleep on the floor, but he was, as John often referred to him, John’s own personal heater.  Sherlock stripped down to his pants and yanked the covers up as he climbed into bed, intentionally letting out hot air out.  John yelped in displeasure.

“Dammit Sherlock! Now I’m freezing!” John complained.  He shoved his foot at Sherlock, as if to keep him out of the bed, but Sherlock hooked his leg around John’s and pulled himself in close.

“Not going anywhere, John.” Sherlock nuzzled into John’s neck.  John sighed, he didn’t really feel like fighting with Sherlock this morning and he was very warm.  

“Roll over then, I get to be big spoon since you let all the warm air out on your side.” John said sleepily.  Sherlock rolled over and smiled as John folded himself around Sherlock.  It never ceased to astound Sherlock how a man as short as John could fit so perfectly against him, knees tucking in behind him just so, his torso flush against his back, strong tan arm draping over his chest and twining their fingers together, and John’s nose at the base of his neck, breath tickling just so in a comforting manner Sherlock had never imagined could be possible.  

“Go back to sleep, John,” Sherlock said as he brought John’s knuckles up to his lips, planting a soft kiss on them.

“M’kay,” John mumbled sleepily, and placed a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, before drifting off.

Sherlock didn’t like to sleep much, but this, this he loved and would make sure to take the time to enjoy it when he could.  Sentiment be damned.


	2. The Less Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The party was loud but his hand on mine brought me back" I took a bit of a liberty and didn't write it in first person.

Why?  Why had he agreed to come to this writhing, hot, irritable thing called a “holiday” party?  Too many people, too much noise, all of it idiotic.  Sherlock stood contemplating his drink.  Sure, he could leave, just start walking and get away from it all.  And believe you me,  that was a very tempting thought, but he’d promised Greg he’d give the party a shot and it was better than the alternative.  Greg was the closest thing he had to a friend.  Well, Sherlock wasn’t too sure about that now.  Greg had deserted him the minute the pretty blonde with blue eyes and a figure hugging dress had crooked her finger his way.  With a “So sorry mate, but you know,” over his shoulder, Greg was gone.  Leaving Sherlock alone in an unfamiliar place.  

He gave the cup a shake, watching the liquid swirl.  The other option was to start deducing the people at the party.  That could be entertaining, but it wasn’t any fun if it meant getting beat up again or not having someone appreciate his deductions.  Good grief!  What idiots they all were.  Bodies pressed tight, grinding against each other, who could enjoy that?  And it was so fucking LOUD!  He closed his eyes and groaned.  He would have had more fun in the chem lab watching the mold grow in their cultures.  Almost anywhere but here would be a preferable alternative.

He felt a firm touch on his hand, bringing him back to the party and reality.  He opened his eyes ready to rebuke the person who’d touched him but stopped, his mouth hanging open.  Instead of an annoying, giggling girl, there stood a young blonde man with intense deep blue eyes who appeared to be a few years older than Sherlock, with a look of concern on his face.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.  Everything okay?”  His voice was tender, but strangely endearing to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head.  “This,” he waved his drink free hand, “isn’t me.  I promised a friend I’d come, but he took off with the first girl who struck his fancy,” Sherlock said bitterly.

“Some friend.  Did you promise him you’d stay in the house?  It looks to be a bit loud in here for you.”  Sherlock shook his head.  “Come on, bring your drink outside,” he headed towards the door, “I’m John by the way.  I rent a room upstairs.”

“I’m Sherlock.”  Sherlock suppressed a smile at the look on John’s face as he walked by, and out the door.

He and John sat on the front stoop and talked, losing track of time.  John wasn’t as much of an idiot as the rest of the partygoers, Sherlock decided.  He was in school to be a doctor, had actually recognized Sherlock didn’t want to be at the party, and had offered him a solution that allowed him to keep his promise to Greg.   And, best of all, didn’t think his deductions were odd.  In fact he used words like, “amazing” and “brilliant” as he told John about the husband and wife across the street who liked to wear each other’s clothes when they were alone in the house.   The fact that he didn’t consider that behavior odd piqued Sherlock’s interest and he commented on it.

“Why should it bother me what they want to do?”  John shrugged,  “If it makes them happy and no one’s getting hurt, how does that affect me?”  He took a swig from his beer, “There are lots worse things people do behind closed doors, Sherlock.”  John stared off into the distance somewhere, his voice suddenly somber.  Sherlock decided against telling John he knew what happened behind the closed doors of John’s childhood home.

And then John surprised him again, “Don’t worry, I know you know.  You’re too smart not to have figured that one out.”  He bumped his knee against Sherlock, “Why do you think I’m here, living with the party animal instead of there?”

Sherlock bumped his knee back, “You’re not alone, you know?  I stayed, miserable at a party, because honestly, it’s better than going home and waiting for the next shoe to drop.”

“Does Greg know?” John asked.

Sherlock almost laughed, “Hardly, and he wants to be a detective.  Can you imagine?”

“Nah,” John said, “You’d make a better one than him.”  His leg was flush against Sherlock’s. Sherlock did his best not to move his leg, enjoying the warmth seeping through the fabric of his jeans.

“I don’t know what I want to do,” Sherlock shrugged, “I’m taking Chemistry courses, but my professors are all idiots.”

John leaned back on his elbows, but left his leg in place, and looked at Sherlock with a twinkle in his eyes, “According to you, we’re all idiots.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Everyone is an idiot, some are just less so than others.”  He winked at John and leaned back on his own arms so that they were at eye level.  John blushed.

“Oh really? What makes a person, “less of an idiot” than others?”   John grinned, his smile bright against the dark.

“Well, for one, they don’t ask questions like that,” Sherlock grinned back and flicked the condensation from his cup at John.

“Oi!” John yelped and dropped on his back to wipe the drops out of his eyes.  Sherlock took that opportunity to roll over on top of him and plant a very firm kiss on John’s lips.

“Also,” he said huskily, “Less idiots are generally better kissers.”

“I’m definitely a less idiot,” John smirked up at him, “Care for some proof?”

“Oh, God, yes!” Sherlock exclaimed as he leaned down and was proven just how less of an idiot the fascinating young man he’d met that night was.


	3. That's What I Want For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What do you the the man who means everything to you for Christmas? (both perspectives)

 

What do you get the man that means everything to you for Christmas?  A fairly simple question, one would think it would have a fairly simple answer.  Sherlock knew he could deduce at least twelve different things that would make John happy.  But they were all “things”.  Items, gifts anyone could buy John and make him smile.  Sherlock wanted to give John a gift that no one else could.  But what could that be?  Sherlock steepled his fingers and began to think.

At the clinic across town, John was contemplating the same question.  Except Sherlock was notoriously difficult to buy for.  And he was just as likely to deduce what was wrapped up in the pretty paper and ribbon instead of opening the gift.  Besides, he wanted it to be special.  Something that would make Sherlock’s eyes light up.  Something besides a murder.

Christmas Day arrived.  Under the tree in 221B there were two lovely, carefully wrapped boxes.  Sherlock had been so worried about his gift he hadn’t bothered trying to figure out what John had gotten him.  But now as he stood in his dressing gown and pyjamas, staring at the box, he realized he absolutely had no idea what it was John had gotten him.  John walked up beside him and handed him his mug of tea.

“Happy Christmas.”

“Mmm,” was Sherlock’s reply.  John just smiled.

“Shall we open our gifts?”  John asked almost shyly.  Sherlock looked side-eyed at him.  John wasn’t shy.  What was this about?

“You first.”  Sherlock picked up the long, thin box with John’s name on it.  John set down his tea and took the gift from Sherlock.  The taller man watched intently as John tore the paper and began to unwrap his gift.  He still wasn’t sure it was the “right” gift for John, but it was special and it meant a great deal to him to give it to John.

John inhaled sharply when he took the lid off the box.  Inside was a deep blue fabric, running across it were a shade lighter set of thick lines.  He lifted the scarf out of the box, running his fingers across the fabric. It was worn in places, where time and use and caused the fabric to grow slightly thinner.  This wasn’t just any blue scarf.  It was Sherlock’s favorite.  John looked up, shocked, to ask what the meaning behind his gift was.  His mouth snapped shut when he saw Sherlock had already opened his gift from John.

Sherlock stood there looking at the light glinting off the dull grey pieces of metal, the chain hanging loosely from his hand.  There was no way he would have guessed these were in the box John had placed under the tree the night before.  Stamped on the two round disks was the information every soldier wore into battle, just in case he was killed or injured beyond recognition.  Intimate pieces of jewelry that a soldier rarely, if ever parted with. Yet, here in his hands, were John Watson’s dog tags.  He looked at John a bit in disbelief.

John shrugged, “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I gave you what I’d like to have received from you.”  He looked down at the scarf and smiled, his eyes bright when he looked back up.  “It looks like you had the same idea.”

The next time they were called to a crime scene there was some confusion, followed by smug smiles as John appeared wearing Sherlock’s scarf and Sherlock had John’s dog tags on display for everyone to see and John humming  “[That’s What I Want For Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sEU_Q2VYypM)”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click the link for the song as sung by Nancy Wilson.


	4. That's Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Frozen Lake

John kicked at the snow.  Of course Harry had abandoned him, again.  The only reason she took him to the park was because it’s where her friends hung out.  It wasn’t fair.  John sniffled and rubbed at his nose, refusing to let the tears stinging his eyes fall.  He couldn’t help that he wasn’t quite ten yet.  He would be in March, but that was another, he counted silently, three almost four whole months away.  Stupid Harry!  Fine!  He didn’t need her anyways.  John rummaged through his pockets and found the wad of crumpled bills he’d saved.  He’d take himself skating if she wouldn’t.  John held his head high and headed to the lake where there was a man who rented skates.

Sherlock ducked behind the bushes, doing his best to step in the footprints already in the snow.  Mycroft had insisted they take an outing to the park for “the purpose of observation” but Sherlock was more interested in getting away from his older brother.  It was a game to him, to see how long it would take Mycroft to find him among the other children playing and shrieking in the park.  Mycroft, for some reason, always thought he would be hiding in trees, the gazebos, or bushes.  You’d have thought Mycroft would know by now to look in plain sight.  Sherlock decided that today he’d head to the lake, he’d always wanted to try ice skating.  More specifically, he’d wanted to try and figure out how frozen water could hold so many people on it without it breaking.  He pulled out the blue hat and scarf he’d borrowed from one of the boys whose mother worked in the city house, and put them on.  He tucked his dark curls in the stocking cap and wrapped the scarf around his mouth and nose in an effort to hide his face.  He then made his way down to the lake.

John skimmed across the ice, forgetting all about Harry.  He loved the way wind whipped at his face as he skated.  How he could glide and forget about everything else, just enjoying himself.  He smiled and rotated so that he was skating backwards.  It was then he noticed the  smaller boy at the edge of the ice trying hard to stay upright.  He looked awkward, limbs flailing, and then he fell hard on the  ice.  John dug the edge of his skates, shaving the ice, and came to a stop.  He looked around and didn’t see anyone watching after the boy.  Maybe he’d been deserted too.  John huffed.  That wouldn’t do.  He skated over to where the boy was, now sitting forlornly on the ice.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m John.”

Sherlock startled at the voice in front of him.  He shouldn’t have had any trouble skating.  It was simple.  Put one foot in front of the other and push.  But apparently there was more to it than just that.  He looked up indignantly.  “I don’t need your help.”  He huffed and crossed his arms.  The blonde boy’s blue eyes twinkled and he sat down on the cold ice next to Sherlock.

“You know,” John said to the boy he knew was just as stubborn as he was, “you’re supposed to tell me your name now.  And you didn’t ask me for help, so I’m not helping you.”  He grinned at the shocked look in the ice blue eyes that stared back at him.  “So, let’s try this again.  Hi, I’m John.”  He held out his mittened hand in greeting.

Sherlock stared at the older boy trying to figure him out.  Sherlock was pretty sure he’d given off a “leave me alone” air and yet here John was sitting on the uncomfortably frozen lake with him as if Sherlock had invited him to tea.  “Sherlock,” he said as he took John’s hand.

John’s nose wrinkled a bit.  “Sherlock.  That’s different.”  Sherlock braced himself for the usual mockery of his name that followed the phrase.  John merely shrugged and said, “I’m out here by myself too.  But most of the others aren’t.”  He waved his hand at the families skating, friends giggling together on the ice, and parents watching their children from the side.  “We should probably get off the ice though before we get run over.  Those blades can be pretty sharp.”  

John stood pulling Sherlock up by the hand he still held.  Sherlock slipped and fell forwards bumping John’s nose with his.   Sherlock’s cheeks tinged a bright pink.  “S-sorry,” he muttered.  John pushed Sherlock up right and giggled, “Don’t worry about it.  You’re still getting your legs under you.  Here,” John turned so his back was to Sherlock, “Hold onto my waist and just let me pull you.”  Sherlock placed his hands on John’s waist and nodded.  John skated them over to the side where they could take off their skates and put their shoes back on.  

Sherlock didn’t quite know what to make of John and that fascinated him.  “Um, thanks for that,” Sherlock said once they got their shoes back on and rental skates turned in.  “Do you like hot chocolate?  I’ve got some change left, I could buy you one.  Unless, you’ve got to go.”  Sherlock hoped he didn’t.  He felt like he’d made a friend and he wasn’t quite ready to let him go yet.  

“Sure.  Harry’s probably not even noticed I’m gone yet anyways.”  John grinned.  Sherlock had actually helped him feel better about being left alone in the park by his sister.  Sherlock beamed back at John and they headed over to the hot chocolate vendor and then sat on the bench.  Sherlock told John as much as he could about the people walking by, John listened, astounded that such a young mind could figure those things out.  “Brilliant!” John uttered under his breath.  Sherlock blushed.  “I could teach you, if you wanted,” Sherlock offered.  John laughed, “Only if you let me teach you to skate.”  

Mycroft Holmes watched the two boys on the bench laughing and breathed a sigh of relief.  Finally, after all this time of coming to the park, Sherlock had found a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art by KrisKenshin:
> 
>  


	5. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hot cocoa with marshmallows in the park
> 
> A Sequel to yesterday's fic "That's Different"

_20 years later_

John looked down at the kids and teenagers skating on the lake and smiled at the laughter that floated up at him.  The smile was tinged with a bit of sadness.  He sat, hands clasped together with his arms resting on his knees.  It was hard to believe he and Sherlock had met here twenty years ago.  He and Sherlock had known each other longer than most of the people on that lake had been alive.  It hadn’t been an easy couple of decades, but usually it was worth it.  Today, was one of those days that made him question if it was.  Another disagreement, more words flung in superior anger by Sherlock, John trying to reason with him, and Sherlock refusing to believe that he had done anything wrong.  John was tired of having the same argument, just changing the names and situations, over and over again.  He’d promised Sherlock early on in their friendship that he’d never try and change him, that he’d let Sherlock be himself.  That friendship that had blossomed into so much more than any of them had ever expected.

The disagreement being that Sherlock couldn’t just lash out and tell a person something that would obviously cause them great distress in front of someone they cared about.  “You can’t tell her, he’s cheating on her!”  or “You can’t just throw it into conversation that he’s gay in front of his family that DOESN’T know!” or some variation of some secrets need to be kept just that, secrets.  He just threw those observations out like casual conversation or as a means to throw a person or suspect off guard.  John tried to get Sherlock to at least pull someone to the side and have a private conversation with them about his deductions, but Sherlock couldn’t seem to help himself.  Sherlock argued that if John expected him to do that, then John was asking him to change, not be himself.  That John was breaking their oldest of promises.  

That always stung.  That Sherlock thought, no, accused, John of doing such a thing.  They had practically grown up together.  John knew Sherlock better than anyone.  When they’d moved in together, he’d expected the experiments, was aware that there would be body parts in the fridge, that Sherlock could be extremely frustrating and would take his frustrations out on his violin in the most awful manner.  John hadn’t asked him to not do any of those things.  He simply bought an extra microwave and labeled one “Food only” and the other “Experiments only”, divided the fridge shelves in half and labeled them accordingly as well.  During his fellowship days, he bought a set of noise cancelling headphones for the nights Sherlock was so angry with the world that his violin playing sounded like tomcats calling in the night.  He had allowed Sherlock to continue to be Sherlock wherever he could.  But that one argument was the ongoing thorn in their side.

John sighed.  Most people thought he was insane to have stayed with Sherlock as long as he had.  Sherlock wasn’t “normal”.  But John didn’t want “normal”, he wanted Sherlock.  Time and again it always came back to that. He had never been able to see himself with anyone else.  There was no one else for him.  But, damn, if Sherlock didn’t make some days hard to remember that.

A quiet crunch of snow behind him caught his attention, followed by the smell of hot cocoa.

“Hello Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“Hello John,” Sherlock said just as quietly and sat down on the bench beside his partner.  Sherlock held out the brown paper cups that held steaming liquid and the perfect amount of marshmallows in John’s.  John accepted the cup and took a sip.  They sat on the bench, drinking from their cups, not saying a word.  

John finished his first and looked at the cup with it’s dregs of cocoa powder in the bottom, before tossing it into the nearby trashcan.  “Ugh,” he grimaced, “This stuff is still as vile as it was that first day.”

Sherlock smiled into his cup as he took a sip, “You say that every time.  Why do you keep drinking it?”

“It’s the only time I can get you to bring me anything to drink,” John tried not to grin at him, “But you already knew that.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “You always end up here.  Cocoa in the autumn and winter.  Lemonade in the spring and summer.  You’re very predictable.”

“You wouldn’t know where to find me if I wasn’t,” John said as he stared out over the ice.

“I will always find you, John.  No matter what,” Sherlock said seriously, though his voice shook slightly.

“I’m not going anywhere.  So don’t worry.” John placed his free hand on Sherlock’s knee and squeezed.  “Don’t try and deny it.  I know you do, every time we have that argument and I end up here.”

Sherlock took a final swing from his cup before throwing it away.  He shoved his hands in his coat, but leaned into John’s touch.  He sighed before he spoke,  “You’re right, John.  You know me so you know what it means for me to say this.  I am terrified that one day, I might do or say something so horrible you won’t be here.  And I’ll be standing alone with two cups and no one to share them with.”

John shuddered at the thought.  He pulled one of Sherlock’s hands out of his coat and removed both their gloves, lacing their fingers together, skin on skin.  “I will always be here, Sherlock.  If I am not, I expect you to and come find me.  Because the only reason I wouldn’t be here would be if someone were keeping me from sitting on this bench, waiting for you to bring the vile stuff they call cocoa or the most sour lemonade in all of London as your way of an apology.”

Sherlock brought their joined fingers up to his lips, and gave John’s a tender kiss.  “I promise.”

John smiled at him.  “Now how about we show those kids down there how a couple of old pros go about falling on the ice?”

Sherlock scowled, “It’s not my fault I fall so often.  My teacher apparently doesn’t know how to conduct class properly.”

“I conduct “class” just fine, thank you very much, you just never were a proper student.  If I recall correctly you’d rather, and in this order: tell me what everyone else is doing wrong, tell me what I’m doing wrong, fall on top of me, and then snog me senseless,” John grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock returned the grin, raising an eyebrow, “True, but I think you have the order wrong.”

“Oh do I?” John asked impishly.

“You know you do,” Sherlock replied, smirking.  John grinned in acknowledgment and pulled Sherlock in for a kiss.


	6. The Great Icing Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: science, sugar cookies, icing, and a rather spectacular mess!

John was used to spectacular messes.  He lived with Sherlock Holmes for Christ’s sake.  Eyeballs exploding in the microwave, dissected fingers on the cutting board, petri dishes with cultures everywhere (and if a petri dish wasn’t available a mug would always do), slides strewn haphazardly on the table (but labeled of course), and various other experiments and detris in the flat.  So when he came home to a hazy cloud of white floating down the stairs he assumed that Sherlock was just up to another one of his experiments.  He prepared to cover his nose and mouth, just in case the substance wafting through the air was toxic, when he smelled something.  Nothing foul, nothing putrid, but of vanilla and sugar, warm and inviting.  He cautiously continued up the stairs and peeked around the corner into the kitchen.  What he saw made his jaw drop and heart jump in a peculiar way.

In the middle of the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, white apron protecting that absurdly expensive shirt, flour in his hair and on his forearms, and a pastry bag in his hands, stood a ridiculously happy Sherlock Holmes.  The counters were covered in their own layers of flour or icing sugar depending on what stage of the process he’d been working on.  Laid out on the table in perfect row after row were dozens of sugar cookies.  Some had already been iced, others waiting for their festive decoration.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked in disbelief as he entered the heavenly smelling kitchen.

“Making sugar cookies.” The _Obviously_ went unsaid.  “Did you know baking is a science, John?”  Sherlock asked gleefully, adding an outline to the next perfect star.  “Precise measuring, mixing, and temperature, all to produce a perfect product.  It’s amazing really when you think about it.  Especially considering how difficult some people make it out to be.  I thought I’d try it once and get bored, but then there’s the icing.  There are so many different kinds of icing.  There’s buttercream, which doesn’t really work well for cookies.  Fondant, which is okay but the wrong texture for cookies.  Royal icing seems to be working well for decorating purposes, but extremely difficult to work with and is very delicate.”  He looked up gleefully at John and for a moment John saw the little boy that never got a chance, being brought up the way Sherlock had been.  It took his breath away.

So, John rolled up his sleeves and asked, “What can I do?”

Sherlock, who had been so sure of being scolded for making a mess of the kitchen beamed back at him, “Check the double boiler, the chocolate should be melted enough for dipping.  There should be ample enough for the remainder of the cookies, with plenty leftover.”

“You’re very precise in your experiments, Sherlock,” John looked at him curiously, “It's not like you to have leftover chocolate.”

“Well, leftover in terms of cookies, but not other experiments,” Sherlock looked at him impishly.

“Ah,” John inhaled sharply, “I trust you washed and dried the towels today then.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.  “Now get your mind out of the bedroom and help me finish this experiment before I start on you.”


	7. The Tiny Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Santa Claus costume with extra stuffing

Hamish squealed with joy when Santa Claus came “Ho-Ho-Ho”ing through the door of the flat.  His blue eyes lit up even brighter than normal and he actually jumped up and down in his excitement.  John beamed, happy that their son was so entranced.  But he could practically feel Sherlock’s scowl from behind him.  He was glad Hamish couldn’t see his father’s face in that moment.

John pulled Sherlock aside.  “As my gift this year, you promised to let him have this one year.  To see how he would react.  He’s enjoying himself.  He’s happy.  Please just let us have one year of Christmas ‘magic’ as a family.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but kissed the top of John’s head in acknowledgement.  John smiled and Sherlock put on his ‘happy face’.

Hamish was busy telling Santa all about blocks he knew Father had gotten him.  “And they have all the elements from the Periodic Table on them.”  He was very precocious for a four year old.  “Papa says they’re to build with, but Father says they’re for learning.  Can't they be for both?”  Hamish looked at Santa with hopeful eyes.  

Santa looked up and glared at Sherlock before responding. “Of course they can be for both, little man!  What a delightful compromise.  Such a smart boy.”  Hamish’s laugh of delight softened Sherlock’s face and his real smile fell into place.  Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Now, tell Santa about the gifts you want, that you _haven’t_ already figured out are under your tree,” Santa said merrily.  Hamish opted not to get on Santa’s lap, “I don’t know how many other children have sat and sneezed there, after all,” he replied.  John had to do his best to keep from rolling his eyes, but muttered aside to Sherlock, “He is your son after all.”  Sherlock smirked.  

Hamish tugged on Santa’s sleeve, “Can I tell you now?”  Santa nodded and Hamish proceeded, “I want Father to believe in you again.”  The silence in the flat was almost deafening.

“Well,” Santa struggled to find an appropriate response, “Well, Hamish, that will be up to you.  After all, some Christmas magic can only happen because of children.”  He sounded a bit choked up as he leaned into give the small boy a hug goodbye, “You know don’t you,” he whispered into Hamish’s ear.  Hamish gave a slight nod.  “Thank you,” said Santa, “Ho ho ho!  Happy Christmas all!” he exclaimed as he headed out the door after placing a few gifts under the tree.

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.  “Hamish,” Sherlock said as he knelt before their son, “What did you mean?  When you said you wanted me to believe in Santa again?”

Hamish rolled his eyes, a perfect imitation of his Papa. “Not Santa.  Uncle Mycroft.”

Sherlock sputtered, “You mean you knew it was Mycroft?  Why did you pretend?!”

“Well you always do when you want to get your way,” Hamish pouted a bit, “And I wanted to see Santa.  Uncle Mycroft in a Santa Costume was even better!”  He grinned again at his parents.

John did his best not to give Sherlock an “I-told-you-so” look as Sherlock knelt there, his mouth agape. “How did you know it was Uncle Mycroft?” John asked.

“Can I pretend to be Father when I tell you?” Hamish begged.  

“Of course,” John gestured with his hand and Hamish began.  First he steepled his little fingers under his chin as if he were thinking.  It was such a perfect imitation John had to struggle not to laugh.  Then Hamish folded his hands behind his back and began to pace the living area.

“I knew he wasn’t the real Santa Claus the moment he walked in.  He walked to formally to be the real Santa Claus.  Plus his ‘Ho ho ho’ needs work.  Much to posh.”  Hamish waved his hand dismissively.  Sherlock smirked proudly.  Hamish continued, “He had extra stuffing hanging out under his belt.  You all couldn’t see it because you’re too big.  But what really gave him away, that it was Uncle Mycroft and not someone else dressed in the costume was the way he looked at me.  Only you, Father, and Uncle Mycroft look at me like that.  Since the two of you were here, it had to be him.”  Hamish finished with a little bow.

“I don’t bow,” Sherlock scoffed affectionately.

“No, but I do,” Hamish grinned up at his father impishly.  “So will you, Father?  Will you believe in Uncle Mycroft again?  You used to.  I’ve seen the pictures of when you were children!”

“What pictures?” Sherlock asked.

“The ones Santa brought me last year.” He replied, eyes honest and open as only a child’s can be.  Sherlock looked at John, confused.  John shook his head.  It hadn’t been him.  

Hamish sighed in frustration at his parents and ran off upstairs to his room. He came back down with an album the perfect size for a child.  Inside were various pictures from Mycroft and Sherlock’s childhood.  Pictures of Mycroft reading to Sherlock, Sherlock covering a sleeping Mycroft with his favorite blanket, Mycroft playing a game of hide and seek with Sherlock, on and on.  Sherlock turned and looked at John, disbelief evident on his face.

“John,” Sherlock almost whispered, “There’s no way he can have these.  They were all destroyed in the fire when I was fifteen.”

“I TOLD you, Father, Santa brought them to me last year!” Hamish was emphatic.

“Apparently,” John said gently, “There really is such a thing as Christmas magic.”


End file.
